More than a Cold Shoulder
by AlteredFire
Summary: "And while all those rabid thoughts ran in John's head like trains and cargo passing over a successful suicide, Sherlock had just lain there, back pressed to carpet and thumbs flicking lazily over the buttons of his phone" For the first time, John's fed up with Sherlock and his antics!


John can be described as a sensible man. Years of military service that pushed his lines of patience and the righteousness that followed him since childhood. To sum it up, John wasn't an easy man to break. Which why even with the frozen eyeballs, chopped arms, and decapitated heads in the fridge, he had managed to accompany Sherlock. Even forgave him for putting bullets in the wall. Such circumstances many humans would not have survived. That said, John is still human, and all humans have breaking points; lines that should not be crossed.

"Sherlock"

The consulting detective chooses to ignore the words, continuing to peer nonchalantly into the microscope, "John! There is nothing in this that proves that he may be the murder! It simply does not make sense! But he was the only one left with her, then unless the housekeeper chose her weapon. Oh but Esmeralda doesn't even speak _English_!" His fingers made annoyed motions before resting coolly onto the arm chair.

"Sherlock"

"What is it John? Pray tell me that finding evidence on him is possible."

"Sherlock!"

There was mute response from Sherlock, who only stared at John, hands clasped as prayer before his mouth.

"Sherlock, I'm going out."

The detective's fingers curled inwards, clasping together for his chin to rest on, "Well John, if it's a date, I recommend you cancel it-"

"Milk! Sherlock you asked for it seconds ago! How could you forget?"

At this, Sherlock looked at little bemused, "Really? Oh, well I seemed to have forgotten."

John stood as he usual, but un-triumphant, cheeks puffed with air and exhaustion before he walked out the flat.

When he returned, a carton of milk in one hand, Sherlock lay on his back, as if there was something to admire about Ms. Hudson's ceiling.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on the floor?"

"I am recreating the murder scene."

Accepting this as another one of Sherlock's weird quirks, John walked around him and to the kitchen.

"John, I need you to do something for me."

A low groan escaped from John. He really wasn't up to it. For the past few days he had felt in the dumps and even as placed the milk on the counter, in the middle of what seemed like a toxic lab, he felt no different. But he obliged anyhow, shuffling to the living room until he stood above Sherlock.

"What… would you like me to do?"

Still lying on the ground, Sherlock spoke, "You see John, the woman died of poisoning. She wasn't feeling well so she decided to… perhaps contact someone. She would have walked across the room to reach the phone, _but,_ her legs are weak from the poison and could not have carried her weight. She immediately fell to the floor before slowly dying from asphyxiation. Unless we're missing a bigger picture…"

John face remained the same. Unamused.

Sherlock continued to speak, "That is where you, John, come in. I need your help to recreate the drama. Think of it like theatre."

"You know, I can't act."

"Oh no, you'll be drinking that, a heavy sleeping drug," Sherlock pointing at a cup filled with green liquid.

At this John looked completely and clearly unimpressed and maybe a little upset.

Crisp and clear memories played once more in his head. Oh yes, the Baskerville hounds was it? When Sherlock, pretending to be filled with guilt and repenting for his sins made John his first cup of coffee. 'Oh! How sweet of him!' One would think until the mere idea that his friend had used that opportunity, yes, such a sentimental moment, to poison him without a drop of dignity. Oh and how John made a fool him himself for forgiving! He had thought that for once Sherlock was not being self-centered but caring, only to know hours later that it was supposedly to have been supposed to be poisoned.

And while all those rabid thoughts ran in Johns head like trains and cargo passing over a successful suicide, Sherlock had just lain there, back pressed to carpet and thumbs flicking lazily over the buttons of his phone.

John, quiet little John, simply spoke three words, "Good .Night. Sherlock." Which to the common eye seems like common way to avoid common annoyances, but John never ignored Sherlock.

Never.

John walked to his room, muscles and limbs stiff with frustration.

Sherlock yelled from the living room, "If it's about the grueling appearance, it can be taken with tea or coffee!"

When John left, Sherlock frowned in the silence. He got up from the floor and plopped himself into the armchair, pressing his fingers once more against his mouth. He seemed to always have a hard time understanding what upsets John. It wasn't like he was poisoning him, simply drugging him. And that too with consent, unlike last time (John gave Sherlock the cold shoulder for days). Sherlock peeled a nicotine patch, concentrating on Esmeralda. Because John would get over it, like he always did.

**_TBC_**


End file.
